


The Girl with Flowers in Her Hair

by Doberler



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Choices, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 12:57:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15219629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doberler/pseuds/Doberler
Summary: Arthur arrests Gwen for causing a plague in Camelot and ponders her innocence, all the while discovering something about himself. Takes place during the Mark of Nimueh, series 1 episode 3.





	The Girl with Flowers in Her Hair

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is because I’ve wondered what was going through Arthur's head when he’s leading Gwen into the throne room, someone he’s known for a very long time. Many thanks to Charis77 for straightening out the tenses. I’d failed miserably at it.

The Girl with Flowers in Her Hair

How many times have I gone through this? Someone being dragged before father beseeching their innocence only for their pleas to fall on deaf ears and the strict hand of the law? I’ve become immune to the supplications of women, the tears of children, the curses of men. The king’s measures are severe, yet they are just. My father has made the kingdom safe from the evils of magic and sorcerers intent on harming citizens he swore to protect regardless of who they are. Surely, each of them are guilty no matter how innocent they appear. So here I am, this time my long-held convictions on justice sorely put to the test because it’s Gwen I’ve arrested, Morgana's faithful maidservant of many years.

I turned my emotions off years ago, ever since my first raid against a druid camp resulted in failure to keep my men from slaughtering every inhabitant down to the last child. I’ve carried out father’s harsh bidding against all things magic like a good soldier since then, following orders that would challenge the sensibilities of any normal person with a heart. My heart has been shut down and I’ve done what I’ve needed to do.

Gwen’s piercing  my carefully constructed walls, her wails of innocence echoing through the stone corridors as she’s hauled between two guards, her pleading for someone to listen to her, to help her tugging at my conscience. She’s terrified, confused. I have to clamp my jaws tight to steel the rush of sympathy careening through me, to do my job and appear as if I don’t care. Gwen is a sweet girl, dutiful, quiet and always in her proper place though I am sure she is the most preferred friend over Morgana’s noble lady companions. I don’t like what I’m doing and I fear Morgana will never forgive me.

I press on with practiced confidence. The evidence against Gwen seems indisputable, her crime punishable by death. A magical poultice that healed her father from a deadly curse plaguing the rest of the city has been found in her home. The blacksmith is the only survivor so far, all others struck down within a day and laid out on the cold, hard cobbles in the courtyard for counting. And the disease is spreading.

When the guards drop the girl at the feet of my father seated in the throne room, I can hardly look at the tiny thing crumbled on her knees, her face terrified and wet with tears. She implores for help, testifies she knows nothing about the plague or the poultice and good Lord, I believe her to be as innocent as the flowers in her hair.

I want to speak up, to say something to father but hold my tongue, gnawing on my knuckle instead. It isn’t my place to defy the king, at least not in public. Only Morgana is brave enough to come to Gwen’s defense but father had stopped listening to reason a long time ago and disregards her pleas as well. There is nothing I can do and I watch him sentence her to death, his hope that with her execution the plague will cease. I watch, just watch as she’s hauled away, pleading for help and compassion.

I don’t think she is guilty of what father accuses her and finally I find my voice, telling him so. The poultice healed a man, can probably save others if father could see beyond his own rigid counsel. I make the mistake of distinguishing myself from him and declaring I’ll judge crimes differently when I am king. I only make matters worse. Father decides to burn Gwen at the stake instead of a quicker death with the axe. I leave to find the captain of the guard, the weight of my prideful blunder crushing my soul. What have I done?

Will father truly execute an innocent girl because there seems no other answer? Are we so quick to judge that we cannot look deeper, search with more diligence? Ensure that the people we are executing are indeed guilty? If he’s wrong, it will be too late for… for Gwen, when we discover that the curse hasn’t been lifted and people continue to die. How will I face her father, a good and just man, after executing his only daughter for no reason, except for fear perhaps? How will the rest of the kingdom come to feel? All I know is my stomach churns as it has before when I’ve ignored a cry for mercy for the sake of my own sanity. There is something more happening here, something I’m missing. What disturbs me most is that if father is wrong now, has he been wrong before?

I feel as if a heavy stone rests on my chest, cutting off my ability to breathe as I assign the detail to build the pyre. I can’t stop thinking about who it’s being constructed for, the girl with flowers in her hair. Gwen has practically grown up with us, always in Morgana’s shadow and lately side by side with her. When we were younger, I’d see them in the garden playing together when they were both skinny little girls and once I’d burst into Morgana's room and caught her fastening one of her silk dresses on Gwen. Father wouldn’t have approved, and though I’d embarrassed all three of us I thought she’d looked pretty in it. Flowers were braided into her hair back then. too, now that I recall. I never barged in on them again.

Gwen has been here through the lavish meals and festivals, celebrations and harrowing conflicts, even journeying with us annually to Morgana's father’s grave. She has been here through all the sicknesses, the bitter family quarrels, the birthdays, and I reckon I haven’t really noticed her, have always considered her just another invisible, dispensable peasant in my father’s service.

I’ve been wrong all this time. Gwen has value: she brings Morgana happiness. She has virtues: she personifies the heart of Camelot with every breath she takes. There is strength and beauty in her humble nature and something about those qualities being snuffed out without regard distresses me. And yet what can I do? Father expedites the execution to tonight when more deaths are reported and her end quickly advances upon us.

I retreat to my chambers. I’m not so irritated that Merlin hasn’t cleaned my room as he should have, the boy's probably still searching for some way to save Gwen. God help him since I am of no use. It’s Morgana who annoys me at the moment, insulting my character like she used to when we were young. I play along with her obvious manipulation just to see what she wants of me. Our banter is the only bright spot in this long, dreadful day.

Then she tells me about my manservant’s theory on what is causing the plague. Something about a creature contaminating our water supply and Merlin needing my help to vanquish it. What utter nonsense, I almost scoff, but it’s a spark of hope that can save Gwen and I swallow my disparaging remark. I charge ahead, drawing my sword in the courtyard when Morgana and I meet up with Merlin, curious eyes turning to us as we rush past Gwen's completed pyre. I swear to myself I’ll kill Merlin for making a fool of me if he’s wrong.

He isn’t, and we hunt a nightmarish creature in the underground water caverns. It disarms me of my sword with a quick swipe of a muddy claw but the torch in my other hand keeps it at bay.

“Arthur, use the torch!” Merlin yells behind me and as I swing it at the beast, a freak gust of wind carries the flames onto it, incinerating it to ash, its dying bellows eerily echoing throughout the cavern. Our first instinct is to assess the citizens of the lower town, and it’s clear the afanc—as Gaius calls it—was the source of the plague as the afflicted have begun to heal.

To my relief and no doubt her family’s as well, father releases Gwen. The creature was not of her conjuring, and although I am not clear concerning its origins, it’s enough for me that an innocent girl’s life has been spared and all because Merlin wouldn’t give up on his friend. What does his conviction say about me?

I’m not present when Gwen is set free, but I want to see her, to inquire into her wellbeing. At least, I thought so until I see her heading for Morgana's room with a bunch of flowers in her hands and my throat seizes up. That’s exactly what she was carrying when I arrested her just yesterday. I dart into the next corridor as smoothly as I can, but her voice rings out behind me.

“Prince Arthur,” she calls. She has courage to speak to me, another admirable trait I hadn’t realized I admire about her. I turn around as she scurries up to me and curtsies. “My lord.”

When she lifts her head, dark almond-shaped eyes shine warmly up at me. In fact, this may be the first time she’s looked at me with gratitude, a sweet fondness, and this expression pains me even more.

“Gwen,” I greet, the shame I feel for my part in her incarceration and humiliation probably evident all over my face, my training to hide all emotion lost with her. Somehow, I feel it’s alright for her to perceive my guilty conscience.

“Merlin and Morgana told me what you did. I—I don’t know how to thank you.”

“There’s no need, Gwen. You didn’t deserve what my father and I put you through.”

She starts to tremble in uneasiness, a smile trying to come to her lips, tears glistening in her pretty brown eyes and I feel even worse for ever hurting her. “I’d lost all hope. The king—”

“Is intractable at times.” I reach out to touch her arm, to offer comfort though I know it’s inappropriate, but the girl has been through a terrible ordeal and a modicum of sympathy will be understood. “I’m sorry.”

The charge that courses through me makes me want to hold on longer, but I let my hand drop to my side. I tingle all over, a sensation familiar and new all the same. Only two tears make tracks down her cheeks before they dry up, her expression as confused as mine as we gaze in each other’s eyes.

Freckles are sprinkled across the bridge of her nose and a mole dots lovely olive skin next to full and lustrous lips. A few strands of curly hair halo her face, the rest bound up and twined with flowers. She is pretty and my lips spread into a smile as all the other things I remember about her suddenly flood my thoughts. I’m warm all over, my head fills with fog and just for an instant, I don’t see Gwen the servant. I see Guinevere, the woman.

My expression must frighten her as much as my thoughts do me because she thanks me again with a quick curtsey and goes on her way. I can’t keep my eyes from following her back down the corridor until she disappears around the corner.

I stand there stupefied. Something unexpected has passed between us in that brief moment of contact, of gazing into her eyes, and I’ve seen something I’m not ready for. I let out a deep sigh, collect my thoughts as truth sets in, and bury feelings I can never act upon.

Some boundaries can never be crossed.


End file.
